Mary Did You Know?
by Astarte's Rapture
Summary: A drabble inspired by the song, Mary Did You Know? R&R please.


Mary . . .

The faint cries drift through the silent night air, floating upon the eastern breeze that scrapes the desert sands and dances through the tall grasses. 'Tis the vociferations of not a man, but of a woman, that causes the passerby's heads to turn and the raven's wings to thrust away. Clay buildings are adorned with the last rays of sunlight, for the hearth had passed below the mountains long ago and left behind a trail of paint splattered about the heavens. Azure blue is clothed with lavender and gold, the colors of royalty. Men perambulate down the sandy roads, dust trailing the soles of their sandals. Women guide their children into their homes as the night stars make their appearance far above. The chilled winds bit farewell to the last traces of winter weather, lashing through the cloths that hang on lines from window to window and sailing down through the thin alleys, much as a messenger running his course, so rehearsed, and so well known.

Another cry.

It will be soon. Men's eyes lift and their brows rise in wonder, but concluding they have no business in womanly affairs, they stay on their pre-planned path. Rust coated hounds do not bawl tonight, and the donkey does not bray. The sheep lay in waiting while their lambs dance about.

She wails once more.

My steps follow her heavy breaths and pained utterances. Now shadowed roads bare my barren feet, and its grains my silken robes. Curtains hanging in carved windows sway together, casting long shadows onto my path as they intertwine and waltz together before the candle's golden beams. Evening has fallen and the sun has passed behind the horizon, leaving in its wake naught but streams of milky clouds against a golden sky. The men are gone now, retiring to their families behind the wooden doors, safe from any intruding chill.

I breathe in the aroma. This city - it is filled with history. Its paths can talk many a tale of great kings parading down their way, of scribes, and of architects preparing the designs of its walls. I have seen the first brick placed upon the sandy grounds and have watched on silently as massive structures sprung from the ground in a vain attempt to reach the starry heavens. Ally ways and dead ends are scattered about these roads, and to one from outside its culture it would be impossible to navigate or to distinguish the ordinary home from an inn. But as for me, my feet are all too familiar to each pebble and stone that line the roads and to each brick, for I can tell the lineage of each. The inns are crowded with old and young, men and women, and their belongings. Contrasting with the day's fitful trials and ruckus, the veiled sky has provided peace and rest, but an extraordinary event shall befall this eve.

I pass an inn full of slumbering babes and snoring husbands. No light adorns the windows in bright arrays, but just across the path, the faint glimmer of gold shines through the hollow window of a stable. Its roof is but straw and hay compacted with mud, and its walls are the familiar clay with carved windows. What place would bring one such as I to its residence and doorstep? The stars above can recall prophesies of old recorded upon sacred tablets of the good news that guides my steps. The shining lantern and birthmark that hangs far above this mere stable can remind me of the importance for which the night holds its breath. The winter winds can testify to the wonder and sacrifice about to be given, the cause of its merry dance and song.

The woman pitifully wails again, but this time my heart leaps from its containment and I cannot prevent my feet from quickening their pace. What can cause this body to react so? Have I not witnessed every great wonder that has occurred throughout this world? I have seen the sea parted and have witnessed a bush speak. I have seen a single man slay thousands and a flood that covered the mountain peaks. A boy slew a giant and a hand wrote on the wall a warning that was not heeded. A human man wrestled with the Almighty and another was swallowed by a beast of giant proportions. Each night I have gazed up at the heavens, the windows to the great I Am, but this night, the stars are different. Those that shone not as bright now beam with equal radiance as the one beside it, and the leader of the legion has never made an appearance until this night. This night, something is stirring. Told to be here at this lonely stable I was, and here I am, awaiting the change that He has spoken of, the great offering to this world.

What a poor place for such a grand event to occur – a ramshackle barn of straw and sleeping cows, pigs, lambs, and donkeys. Why would He choose the location of such a prepared event to occur beside livestock? Peering through the carved entrance arch, for the only door lay unhinged on the ground, I watch as a woman pants on a heap of hay, her fingers curling with each contraction that comes from her swollen belly. A man in equal distress holds her shoulders and whispers soothing words into her ear. Her olive skin glistens with sweat and her nut brown hair flares about the straw in knots and curls. Despite her disarrayed circumstance, she is beautiful. Even one such as I acknowledge the natural elegance of her figure and form. The man beside her is clothed in heavy cloths and his beard outlines his adust toned face. Brows knitting together, he expels whatever comfort he can give to the dusky complexioned woman.

I step back through the arch to be greeted with the bright heavens and twinkling stars that encircle the earth. I take a seat upon a tree stump . . . waiting. My fingers glide over its bark, following the age circles shading the aureate wood. Smells fill my nostrils. Scents of extinguished fires with burnt fagots mingled with the misty blend of black and gray smoke and of now devoured meals of salted meat and freshly baked bread. The aromas of the present mix with those of the past. Slightly damp straw from the sloppy stable boy carrying pales of water to and from the basins stirs with the natural fragrance of garden flowers and trees. Fluttering wings of bats resound in my ears as they fly in masses from treetops and far into the night sky so that they fade into the shadows and out of sight. Turning my head upwards and lifting my chin so that it is parallel with the tree trunks, I stare at the heavens above me.

This is not the first time I have seen the starry host from the soil, but each evening I am present on earthly ground I admire the handy work of the Almighty. I have gazed at those same lights for ages, pondering what the inhabitants of the world must feel when peering up at the legion. Many hours I have spent in a field or window looking upward and speaking gently to the Maker of such a display. For those few hours I feel that which the human man feels when he travels across foreign lands with naught but the stars to direct his paths and to bare him company. For from the sandy grounds the heavens appear much like a navy sheet with spiked tears. The stars are but the sun rays through the tattered cloth as it covers a window on the spring mornings. Feelings swim within me that cannot be quelled; the sensations of man.

When looking upward, I feel like a minute speck, unseen and ineffective. Of what importance is a speck amidst an army of many, but it is then I realize that which most earthly beings do not consider when gazing at the heavens. Suppose each soldier of that legion was to feel worthless and unimportant, would it not cease all hope and fade into darkness? And if they were all to feel that same fear of obscurity, what use is there of a starless sky? "I know the stars by name and I listen to their songs." He spoke those words so long ago. Not a single twinkling twilight star is unknown to Him who created it, and neither does it fall into darkness nor wait in vain for the dawn to see the birth of a fresh day that He is not present to catch it as its footprints are left in but dust across the sky. If He can number the starry host, why should any feel that their own number has been lost, that they are forgotten when they themselves have forgotten that they are as sheep in a flock being cared for and watched over by the shepherd, One that knows each by name and number?

I allow a smile to tug at my lips as I play the often asked questions from those who stare up at the night heavens.

The woman cries out once more, and I know that it shall be soon.

The prophecies of the spiritualists years ago will occur this night, setting the ball into motion. I can recall the vaticinations of Isaiah, the trusted prophet of the Lord God.

"Born of a virgin," I whisper to myself. The winds pick up and a brisk draft rips through my robes, sailing to the west. Its direction has changed since I first stepped foot in the city. I watch silently as the leaves of bronze and auburn dyed with Cresson hues spin and cavort about each other in a merry jig while the trees sway their lithe bodies in merriment with skillful sashays. Allowing my eyelids to shade my pupils, I read the prophecies over in my mind.

"He will be beaten for their transgressions, bruised for their iniquities. By His stripes they shall be healed." Opening them ever so slowly, I sit in a reverie of thoughts. Searching through the shadows, I find not a hint of answers, and the wind evades my gaze and plea. The woman's fading cries of birth sting my mind and my eyes, out of natural reaction, turn to the heavens. The stars burning has intensified as they stand ready to pour their light upon the newborn babe, but my joy of the occasion has turned bleak and mournful as I recall each prophecy of turmoil and suffering that shall befall the innocent child who has yet to take His first real breath. Searching the heavens for a resolution to my queries, I titter at how foolish I have acted, searching the stars for answers instead of He who created them.

"Heavenly Lord . . ." I pause in a perplexed thought and screw my brows together before sighing deeply. "Shall all that has been foretold befall this babe? Is He not Your Son, the Child that shall redeem this world?" My tongue ceases its movements and my lips hang open. Waiting is a concept I have been taught since my creation, for an answer is best served with patience and thought then with haste and carelessness, and even less accepted. His words come not as a great voice all can hear, but as an answer in my breast and in the pounding vessel that gives life.

"By His stripes they shall be healed." The words written by Isaiah and spoken by the Almighty answer my questions, and in remorse I hang my head. "Shall I be there with Him," I whisper, and the fire within my breast answers.

The woman yells once more, but her cries are drowned by the whimpers of a child, of a babe. The stars shine full force in proud allegiance and I hasten my pace to the entrance arch and peer in at the woman who, though covered in a sheen of sweat, rocks the newborn clothed in swaddling clothes in her arms and smiles as she caresses His face. The man whom will raise the babe strokes His head as the woman lays Him in a manger of straw and cloth. The livestock have awakened and peer on silently in reverence.

The child, the King, does not wail as most babes, but looks up at the woman in silent wonderment before closing His eyes. "If only You could know of what awaits You, my Lord, but for now you are but a child, a wee newborn. Sleep now and fear not of tomorrow, for it shall come soon enough, but dream of pleasant thoughts, for Your sacrifice will arrive much too soon. You are safe tonight." My prayer does not fall on deaf ears, for I notice the child stir and my heart leaps once more, but when my eyes swerve and land upon the proud parents, the beating slows. The man now lays down upon the straw, exhausted from the eventful night, and as he lulls into a slumber I gaze at the woman who has began to hum to the newborn King.

As she sings to her son, what thoughts peruse through her mind? Perhaps she is imagining His first giggle, or perhaps, His first word. Maybe she is envisioning Him taking His first step, His legs trembling – wobbling to and fro - like the palm in the Sahara winds. His words verified the path that His Son will take, but does she have even the lightest shadow of how her heart shall break?

This very child that every celestial being has anticipated for years will transform the earth. Can she fully envision the struggles and times of despair that await Him? Mary, the simple babe wrapped tightly in your arms holds more power that you yourself shall ever know. Though you shall raise Him as your own, and He shall call you mother, He will save you. The child you withheld birth pains for shall deliver you years from now. He will prepare a path that you may enter into the Almighty's kingdom, blameless and forgiven. You have studied much, dear one, but so much will be learned as fathoms become reality.

I step away from the doorway for just a moment as visions plague my mind. I see the Lord as a child, teaching old wise men in a white stone temple – as a young man, dipping into the crisp Jordan as the heavens break to reveal the golden lights of heaven's gate. I see Him as He walks along the Sea of Galilee, calling rugged fishermen to His side. He will walk beside twelve men, and they will heed His words, and they shall be blessed. But one will peer at Him through glazed eyes, and at His side shall be a double edged sword. The sword shall plunge deep when the time is ripe, but Mary, dear Mary, that is a long time away.

My robes scratch the ground as I make my way from the tiny stable. The light still glows brightly and in the distance, the _baas _of sheep resound as silhouettes of staffed men appear atop a hill.

A prayer to the Most High slips from my lips and fades down alleys, the words echoing in the vast expanse of blackness.

_Sleep now, dear one, and cradle your Savior close to your breast. Far be it from your mind these thoughts and trepidations of known prophecies. Sleep now . . . for it is still, such a very long time away. _

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AN: I decided to use this space to clear up some matters concerning a few reviews, good naturedly of course! First, I am fully aware of the Biblical truth – I have been educated in it for the past 14 years and continuously seek it's wisdom in my higher education. I intended this piece to show that it is an extraordinary birth, for it is and was. I am slightly confused as to why it has come across as something other, unless my portraying of Mary having birthing pains conflicts with another's held belief, in which case, boils down to naught but personal contemplations. I am also aware that Mary would very well know about the prophecies concerning her beloved Son, but only meant to hint that she could never truly yet know of how painful of a loss it would truly be, which is true. I know that my grandfather is in his last year of life, but I will not know the pain of losing him until I actually do. One can never know the grief of loss until that loss is actually experienced, and for this reason, the angel in my story questions. I never meant it to mean a reference that she is ignorant to the prophecies, only to the actual pain she will experience and witness her Son experience, but at the moment can only fathom. That is all. I am sorry if it came across as such (And I do see how that conclusion was reached as I added in a few ponderings that are vague and hint towards that, but have hopefully cleared up with a slight edit. I appologize for this!), but thank you all for graciously explaining your reasoning instead of resorting to some sort of flame. Much appreciated!


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